David Sherman & Dan Cragg - [Starfist 13]

by Wings of Hell (lit)

  “Listen up, you Marines!” the army lieutenant called out. “These Battle Cars are designed to carry one nine-man army squad each, so you might be a little bit crowded with your heavy weapons. But we don’t have to go far, so you won’t be cooped up for long.” He turned to Hyakowa. “Sergeant, board your men.”

  “By squads,” Hyakowa ordered. “First, second, guns.” He pointed at a different Battle Car as he called out each of the squads.

  Lieutenant Charlie Bass arrived from the company command post as the last of the platoon boarded.

  “Lieutenant,” the two officers greeted each other.

  “You’ll ride in the command car with me,” the army lieutenant said to Bass. “Your sergeant can ride in the driver’s compartment of the second Battle Car, and your communications man in the third.” Bass and Hyakowa flicked their eyes at each other when the lieutenant referred to Hyakowa as “your sergeant.” But neither commented. They boarded the Battle Cars and drove off to a fight.

  It would have taken two Dragons to carry the platoon, and they wouldn’t have been as crowded.

  “Listen up, third platoon,” Lieutenant Bass said on the platoon all-hands circuit; the Marines had put on their helmets and gloves and rolled their sleeves down when they entered the Battle Cars. “The 499th Infantry regiment is in danger of being overrun by Skinks to their front and flank. Those Skinks are supported by rail guns in the forest. Kilo Company is going after the flanking Skinks to hit them from the rear. Company L is going after the rail guns in front of the 499th. When we stop and dismount, squad leaders on me so I can give you overlays and orders. That is all.”

  The Battle Cars went at their top overland speed, ignoring the possibility of ambush, and in less than fifteen minutes stopped just east of the former position of the 227th Infantry. Their doors popped open and the Marines poured out and automatically set a defensive perimeter facing to the north and west. Bass raised an exposed arm for the three squad leaders to guide on.

  “Here we are,” he said when they joined him. He transmitted the overlay to their comps; there was a “you are here” clearly marked on the overlays, and a “here they are.” Icons showed the locations of a dozen Skink rail guns; the nearest was three-quarters of a kilometer to their northwest.

  Sergeant Ratliff whistled. “We’re supposed to take out twelve rail guns without assistance?” he asked.

  “We’re Marines,” Bass answered. “I don’t see any reason we can’t.”

  Sergeant Kelly elbowed Ratliff in the ribs. “You heard the lieutenant; we’re Marines, we do the impossible.”

  Ratliff grunted.

  “One other thing you need to know before we set out: You’ve probably noticed that I didn’t have a corpsman with me when I came back from company. The skipper’s keeping them all with the command unit. He gave me stasis bags in case we have casualties. Here.” He handed one to each of the squad leaders. “I’m keeping a fourth myself. We shouldn’t need them.”

  None of the squad leaders commented on the lack of a corpsman, or the stasis bags, but Bass saw concern in their faces. He chose not to comment about it.

  “Now, here’s how we’re going to do it…” Bass said.

  Second squad, naturally, was given the job of taking out the first rail gun. Second squad’s second fire team had the point on the mission—Lance Corporal Hammer Schultz wouldn’t have it any other way.

  The forest was thinner than Schultz would have preferred for a stealthy approach, scattered trees and low, scraggly undergrowth, but he knew better than to be put off by the less than optimal. The Skinks were going down and Schultz was going to see to it that as many of the Marines as possible were going to survive.

  The squad was on line moving through the forest, and it wasn’t Schultz, but PFC Gilbert Johnson, the platoon’s newest member, who spotted the first Skink.

  “Corporal Doyle, bad guys,” Johnson said on the fire team circuit, from his position on the squad’s right flank. “Thirty, thirty-five meters, my right front.”

  Sergeant Kerr, listening in on all the fire team circuits, heard, and said, “Second squad, freeze.” Then, to his third team, “What do you have, Doyle.”

  “I, ah, I—. There they are. I c-can make out seven. Oh hell, they’ve spotted us! Summers, Johnson, back up! Fire as you go!”

  Kerr heard the crack-sizzle of blasters from his right and saw the flashes as two Skinks were hit and flared into incandescence. Before he could give commands to the rest of his squad, Schultz came on the squad circuit:

  “Second team, flanking them.”

  “Wait up, Hammer,” Corporal Claypoole shouted on the fire team circuit. “Who told you to—”

  A rapid series of crack-sizzles from Schultz’s blaster cut off Claypoole’s words. Shouts and conflicting orders came over the radio on all of second squad’s circuits: “There they are!” “Get down!” “There’s a dozen of them!” “Fall back!” “Over here!” “Aim your shots!” “They’re all around us!” “Volley fire!” “Where’s the rail gun?” Until Sergeant Kerr’s voice managed to cut over the others:

  “Second squad! Second fire team, pull back, firing as you go. Third fire team, swing to your right, pivot on first fire team. First fire team, pick targets and flare them!”

  The confused shouting stopped and the Marines’ fire became more disciplined. Flashes flared up in the forest where the Marines were firing.

  “Cease fire!” Kerr commanded after a moment. “Fire team leaders report!”

  The fire team leaders reported none of them had casualties.

  “Is anybody else moving out there?” Kerr asked when the reports were in. Nobody saw sign of Skinks to their front. Kerr reported to Lieutenant Bass.

  Bass looked beyond second squad’s line, toward the rail guns that were the platoon’s objective. And at just that second, the nearest rail gun turned and began firing in the direction of third platoon.

  “Down!” Bass screamed into the all-hands circuit. They were still about half a kilometer from the rail gun, and the gunner was shooting a little bit high, so the rail gun’s pellets zipped harmlessly overhead. But Bass knew that state wasn’t likely to last. What Bass didn’t know—and wasn’t anxious to find out the hard way—was what the extremely high-speed pellets from the rail guns did when they hit the ground in front of a prone man.

  Lance Corporal Schultz wasn’t concerned about what the pellets flying at two-tenths the speed of light did when they hit the ground in front of a prone man—he wasn’t prone. As soon as he’d let Corporal Claypoole know he was all right and there weren’t any living Skinks to the squad’s front, he crouched and began trotting to his right front. He knew the brief firefight was going to attract attention, and part of that attention was likely to be from the nearest rail gun. He’d only gone a few paces when he was proved right and the rail gun began firing in third platoon’s direction. Schultz kept moving, with only part of his attention on the rail gun; it was shooting more toward the left side of the platoon than in his direction—and his route was taking him even farther from its likely cone of fire.

  Movement to his right front made Schultz pause in his advance, frozen immobile for a moment. He turned up his ears and rotated through his helmet screens. Seven Skinks, armed with the acid guns, were running through the forest, headed toward second squad’s position. He radioed a warning to Sergeant Kerr, then began moving again, ignoring Kerr’s and Claypoole’s demands to know where he was, and their orders to return to his position.

  Schultz had seen enough of the Skink rail guns in action on Kingdom to know how they were set up and that he didn’t need to close on one in order to kill it. When he’d increased his lateral position relative to the gun by a hundred meters, he began moving straight on a perpendicular path that would lead him to a position a hundred and fifty meters to the gun’s left. Behind him, he heard the crack-sizzle of blaster fire, and the whooshes of flaring Skinks.

  Little more than two minutes after leaving his position, S
chultz was where he wanted to be. Now he was thankful for the thin forest—he had a clear line of sight to the Skink rail gun crew. But that same line of sight gave him a clear view of a platoon of Skinks heading on an angle to flank third platoon. Most of them were carrying the acid shooters but one team bore a rail gun. The nearest of them were within the fifty-meter range of the acid guns.

  Schultz smiled.

  Halfway down the platoon line, a small group of Skinks, maybe half a dozen, advanced closely together. Schultz carefully lowered himself to a prone position and sighted on the farthest Skink in that group, aimed, and pressed his blaster’s firing lever. Instantly, he shifted his aim to the middle of the group and fired again. Once more he shifted aim and shot the nearest. The Skinks in that group were bunched so close together that each hit ignited at least one other Skink. Then Schultz turned his attention to the Skinks closest to himself. They had been confused by the unexpected fire, but their sergeants and officers quickly began shouting orders, and they were dropping to the ground to return fire. But Schultz had moved after he shot the three closest Skinks. It was less than fifteen seconds since he’d fired his first bolt and already the Skink platoon had lost more than a squad.

  Schultz looked to where he’d seen the crew carrying the rail gun and saw they had gotten it set up and were about to begin firing. He snapped off three quick bolts, and, on toes and elbows, changed his position, five meters to his right and ten back just as streamers of acid splashed the area he’d vacated. He looked through the thin undergrowth but couldn’t make out prone Skinks through it. He’d have to wait for them to fire again and give away their positions. The rail gun crew was gone, likely vaporized when he shot them. But as Schultz looked, he saw three more Skinks running to crew the weapon. Three quick shots took them out. He moved again, then sent several bolts into its barrel, heating it enough to bend and thus rendering it useless.

  Once more he moved and this time marked the positions from which Skinks had returned fire. He fired several quick bolts into the undergrowth a few meters short of where he’d seen the acid streamers begin their arching flights and was rewarded by three or four flashes of flame as plasma bolts skittered along the ground and struck home.

  The original forty-Skink platoon was down to half strength. But Schultz hadn’t yet taken out his primary target—the rail gun that had third platoon pinned down. Or rather, had had the platoon pinned. That rail gun was now shooting over the heads of the Skink platoon, fishing for Schultz.

  And coming close.

  Schultz raised his shoulders, propped himself on his elbows, and sighted in on the rail gun. He took out the gunner, then fired three more bolts at the weapon—it didn’t matter if the rest of the crew survived, they were no threat if the weapon was useless. But he couldn’t finish the job.

  Officers screamed and sergeants barked and the remaining Skinks jumped to their feet and charged, spraying a wall of acid as they came. Schultz pushed himself up and rapidly backed away, firing as he went. Nearly every bolt hit home. Some of the bolts must have hit the officers and sergeants because suddenly nobody was yelling orders, and the few remaining Skinks broke and ran.

  Schultz let them go. He didn’t care whether they lived or died, but alive, after so many of their comrades had been killed by one Marine, they could spread uncertainty and fear among the ranks. That uncertainty and fear would reduce their fighting ability, and that would save the lives of Marines. Besides, he still had to render the rail gun useless. He knelt and aimed at it, pouring plasma bolt after plasma bolt into it until its receiver glowed red, then white, and started to sag.

  Satisfied, Schultz turned and began trotting back to where third platoon was beginning to advance again.

  “Schultz.” Lieutenant Bass’s angry voice came over Schultz’s helmet comm. “I want to see you. With your squad and fire team leaders. Right fucking now!”

  When Lance Corporal Schultz reached Bass, the lieutenant sent the rest of the platoon on under Staff Sergeant Hyakowa. Bass stood, bare arms akimbo, fists jammed into his invisible hips, helmet dangling from one wrist. Sergeant Kerr stood to Bass’s left, bare arms folded over his chest, also helmetless. Both were glowering at Schultz, who raised his helmet screens to show his coppery face. Corporal Claypoole was also there, to the left of Kerr, bare-armed and bare-headed and with an expression of Why, gods? Why one of my men? on his face.

  “Lance Corporal.” Bass’s voice was a growl that began somewhere deep in his chest and grew louder as he spoke. “Who told you to go off on that flanking movement by yourself? I’m waiting for an answer, Lance Corporal!” He did his best to tower over Schultz but failed, since Schultz was taller and not about to be intimidated by anybody, not even the one officer he respected above all others.

  Schultz looked back at Bass laconically, and didn’t bother to answer—he figured the question was rhetorical.

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed, Schultz?” Bass’s voice rose as he asked the question.

  “Two rail guns. Twenty Skinks, maybe more” was all Schultz had to say.

  “I know what you accomplished out there, dammit!” Bass shouted. “But you could have gotten yourself killed, pulling a stunt like that. Don’t you realize that?”

  Schultz gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

  Bass shook his head. “You’re fucking impossible, Schultz. If you hadn’t done so well, I swear I’d have your ass in front of Commander van Winkle for disobeying orders and insubordination. And endangering government property! A Marine is government property—you do understand that, don’t you?”

  Schultz gave another minor shrug. He knew that Bass wasn’t going to do anything to him, that he was just upset because Schultz had gone off on his own and might have gotten killed. Except, Schultz knew he wouldn’t have gotten killed. The fact that he came back without a scratch was all the proof he needed.

  “Corporal Claypoole,” Bass snapped, making Claypoole jump, “keep better control over your people in the future. Now take him and rejoin your squad.”

  “B-but how am I—I mean,” Claypoole stammered, “this is the Hammer we’re talking about. Nobody can control him!” But he was leading Schultz back to the rest of the squad as he voiced his objection. He rolled his sleeves down and donned his helmet as he went.

  “What do you think?” Bass asked Kerr in a much calmer and quieter voice when Claypoole and Schultz were far enough away not to overhear. “A Gold Nova?” The second-highest decoration given out by the Confederation Marine Corps.

  Kerr considered the question for a few seconds before saying, “If it was anybody else, I’d say the Confederation Medal of Heroism. Or at least the Marine Heroism Medal. But for Hammer Schultz? Yeah, the Gold Nova sounds about right. That was ballsy even for him.”

  Bass nodded. “I’ll put him in for the Marine Heroism Medal. That way, if higher-higher wants to knock it down, he’ll still get what he deserves.” He looked in the direction the platoon had gone. “Let’s catch up.”

  Kerr headed for his squad and Bass went to where Hyakowa had moved, behind the center of the platoon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Third platoon, Lance Corporal Schultz actually, had killed two of the rail guns that were raking the front of the 499th Infantry Regiment. But six more of the weapons were in the platoon’s area, along with an unknown number of foot soldiers. Lieutenant Bass had the platoon shift a hundred meters to the north along their west-to-east axis of movement. The angle of movement of the Skink platoon that Schultz had encountered suggested that the bulk of the Skinks were either on line with the rail guns or slightly in front of them. By shifting north, Bass hoped to reduce the chances of running straight into moving Skinks. He somehow doubted that the enemy was building up in depth.

  Bass stopped the platoon a hundred meters beyond Schultz’s one-man assault on the first Skink rail gun. The platoon should have been directly behind the second gun on their assigned list. But he didn’t hear it firing.

  “One,
on me, bring your second fire team,” Bass ordered on the all-hands circuit. “Five, put the rest of the platoon in a defensive perimeter.”

  Sergeant Ratliff and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa rogered. A moment later, Ratliff and Corporal Pasquin, along with Pasquin’s men, reached Bass.

  Bass got right to it. “There should be a rail gun about one-fifty meters south of us, but I don’t hear one firing. It could be that it was the one with the platoon that Schultz took out, but I don’t know. Pasquin, you’re former recon. Get close, see if that gun’s still there, and if not, what the Skink disposition is. Questions?”

  Pasquin looked at his men, Lance Corporal Quick and PFC Shoup. Both were good men and had fought Skinks on Kingdom but neither man had recon experience. Could they snoop and poop well enough this close to the enemy? He knew they knew how to move close to enemy positions. If he was careful about guiding them, and did not let them get close enough to alert the Skinks’ sixth sense…Yeah, under his leadership, they’d do all right. “No questions,” he said. Except for the obvious one: Why was Bass giving the job to him instead of to Hammer Schultz? He decided that, as former recon, he knew how not to fight, but Schultz only knew how to fight.

  “Keep in close touch with your squad leader.”

  “Aye aye.”

  “Do it.”

  Pasquin took the point and led his men south. Quick was staggered to the right, Shoup to the left, and all three could shoot straight to the front without danger of shooting one another.

  Pasquin turned his ears all the way up and he used the light-gatherer screen on his helmet; it wasn’t very dark under the thin canopy but he knew from experience that the Skinks’ skin and uniform colors allowed them to blend in with their surroundings if there was some shadowing; the light gatherer should make them stand out. He heard rail guns fire along a line to his right front but not to his front or left. The whizz of army flechette rifles came from farther ahead. At the moment he wasn’t concerned about getting hit by friendly fire; flechette darts were so fast they quickly burned up in atmosphere. He and his men were beyond flechette range anyway.